


Not the Arkenstone

by apfelgranate



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Courtship, Kink Meme, M/M, but there is sex, surprisingly:no hate!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelgranate/pseuds/apfelgranate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the hobbit kink meme:</p><p>Long before that whole business with the dragon, Thranduil had heard whispers of praise about Thror's grandson. He arrives at Erebor mainly to pay homage to Thror and the Arkenstone, but becomes very taken with Thorin after meeting him. Soon after, he openly plies the young dwarf with gifts. If sexytimes happen, I would really like it if Thorin bottoms, but I leave that up to Anon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the Arkenstone

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt as well as the fill are loosely inspired by this gifset:
> 
> http://fruityadobo.tumblr.com/post/39831649938/rewatching-the-hobbit-with-my-sister-leads-to-a
> 
> Also, I am basing Thranduil's characterization on less than a minute of footage, that is basically zilch, and I imagine Thorin would be not quite as broody at that point in his life as he is during The Hobbit.

Thranduil is smitten. It is not an emotion he is very familiar with, but he recognizes it well enough. He had heard tales of Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. Of his skill and ferocity in battle, of his prowess with hammer and anvil. The word 'gorgeous' had been uttered, and not just in reference to his craftmanship.

 

Still, nothing prepares Thranduil for meeting the dwarf prince in person, for the fire that blooms in his chest when Thorin gives him the hint of a smile.

 

Thranduil obeys the courtesies, and watches and converses and comes to the conclusion that Thorin is all the stories have promised, and more. And Thranduil wants, _wants_ with a fierceness he has not felt in eons.

 

***

 

He keeps finding excuses to visit Erebor. There are trade arrangements to be made, there are festivities to be acknowledged with his presence, there are "I have missed the taste of your ale," and "I was traveling in the vicinity," and "I wished to look upon the jewel from Under the Mountain again."

 

He does not shower the young dwarf prince with gifts, although he wants nothing more. He brings gifts for Thror, and for Thrain, and for Thorin. Thorin's gifts are of the least value of the three, if not for the fact that Thranduil makes every single one of them himself. He forges a sword, and weaves a cloak and sings a pipe from the trees and Thorin accepts all of them with a smile and a graceful bow and blood staining his cheeks pink.

 

Thranduil's heart soars. But over time, Thorin's smile comes slower, he is quicker to leave from their conversations, less eager to show off the way he fights and forges.

 

***

 

"I don't intend to be rude, but why do you keep coming here?" Thorin asks him one day, while they are wandering the corridors of Erebor. "I thought that elves did not especially favour the mountains. We have promised you trade, there's no need to ply us with any more gifts."

 

"I came to see the jewel from Under the Mountain," Thranduil replies. Thorin frowns.

 

"But you have already seen it," he says, slowly. "More than once, even."

 

"Yes, but I am… taken with it. A thousand times I might lay my eyes upon its beauty and it would still not be enough," Thranduil whispers and bends closer to the young dwarf, so they are sharing air.

 

 _It will never be enough_ , he thinks and says, "I do not mean the Arkenstone."

 

Thorin looks at him strangely, his gaze flitting, finally settling on Thranduil's eyes. His cheeks grow pink with blood.

 

"I'm no jewel," he growls, but when Thranduil smiles, his gaze catches and lingers on the elf's lips. "I know, my prince," says the elf king. "But you are the loveliest thing I have seen in eons." Thorin swallows.

 

"You were courting me."

 

"I still am. What did you think it was?"

 

Thorin's mouth opens, hesitates, closes. Oh, how Thranduil wants to lay his lips against the shape. The dwarf shakes his head, averting his eyes. "I did not think it possible," he mutters.

 

"That I could fall for you?" Thranduil asks. "That I could yearn for your attention, for your affection like a starving man yearns for food?"

 

Thorin still avoids his gaze. "You sound like a lovestruck fool," he says, except his voice is hitched, breathy.

 

"But I am," Thranduil says insistently, stepping closer, his heart beating fast _. I am struck and dying, my prince._

 

Finally, _finally_ Thorin looks back up at him and there is a _hunger_ in his eyes, a hunger that is as deep as the sea. Thranduil's eyes close when Thorin's hands cup his face and then the dwarf kisses him, soft as a sigh.

 

"I accept your courtship," he whispers, so close each word alights on Thranduil's lips. "Would you accept the offer of sharing my bed?"

 

Thranduil shivers. "Yes," he breathes, "yes, I do," the words almost lost in the crush of their lips, of their bodies, with sparking urgency.

 

***

 

Thorin is slenderer, more graceful, than most dwarves. But compared to an elf, he is still thick and stout, all over. He is also wild and wanton and Thranduil feels like he is burning alive from the heat of Thorin's strong legs around him, of his heaving chest and the sweet sharp ache of his fingers digging into Thranduil's buttocks.

 

"Hurry, _hurry_ , you wretched king—!" Thorin snarls and even as Thranduil is panting, fumbling, the dwarf drags him in-in-in-inside, into his body, where it is hotter still.

 

King and prince alike freeze, overcome by fire, then Thranduil's arms give out, collapsing onto his elbows and he starts to move, or perhaps Thorin moves him, he cannot know, he cannot breathe, but he does not require breath to kiss Thorin, to taste his moans, his whines, until he _can_ move, can give Thorin the pleasure he wants and more, their hair tangling, their breath mingling, their noises, desperate, "You lovely creature, Thorin, lovely, please— _oh_ …" needy, wanting, "Thran—Thranduil, please, don't stop, _donotdarestop_!" and he will not stop until Thorin wishes otherwise, would not dare to deny him this, this fire they are making, that is consuming them whole, that is ancient and greedier than any dwarf, and it takes and gives and burns and—

 

—and oh, _oh_ …

 

***

 

Thranduil can breathe again.

 

There will be bruises, he knows. He could heal them, but he likes the idea of carrying Thorin's marks, for a while at least. The dwarf is wet between the legs from more than his own seed and Thranduil likes that, too. Thorin's hand is cupped around the back of his head and he draws the elf in to kiss him, soft and gentle as the first. His fingers tangle in Thranduil's hair.

 

"You look different without your crown," he murmurs. Thranduil's crown tumbled to the ground sometime in the beginning. There is an utterly fond expression on Thorin's face and Thranduil thinks for a moment, that he would never wear it again if Thorin would look at him like that for the rest of time.

 

"Less like a king?"

 

Thorin chuckles.

 

"A little. Like a king who had quite a tumble in the sheets," he whispers, drawing one of his legs up and throwing it over Thranduil's hip. He twists and pushes and then Thranduil is on his back with the dwarf prince straddling his lap. He draws his hands over Thranduil's hairless chest, settling on the bow of his ribs.

 

"What about another tumble, elf king?" The light catches in Thorin's eyes and hair, a golden glint like that of a dwarven crown. Something in Thranduil's throat tightens.

 

"You will be a great king," the elf whispers. "The greatest king Erebor has ever seen." Thorin stares at him, looking like somebody struck him, and then he is kissing Thranduil, deep and hungry.

 

"Is that a yes?" he breathes.

 

"Yes. _Yes_."


End file.
